


Glad....something

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5321117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade brings the sole witness of a brutal murder to 221B. But things aren't quite what they seem....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glad....something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skyeblux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyeblux/gifts).



There was the sound of laughter in the flat that stopped abruptly as Sherlock pushed open the door.  
Mrs Hudson was in the archway to the kitchen, standing close to Lestrade, who was completely failing in his attempts to hide his smirk. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Mycroft sitting in John’s chair, twirling his umbrella shaft and trying to look innocent.  
Without bothering to take off his coat, Sherlock ignored his brother and made to throw himself onto his chair, stopped only by the flash of something glittery.  
His sudden, jerky stop made Lestrade and Mrs Hudson laugh again. But Sherlock was not laughing.  
‘What the hell is that?’  
‘It’s a dog, brother dearest.’  
Sherlock considered the pile of black curls on his chair, from which a pair of soft black eyes was in turn considering him.  
‘That’s not a dog,’ he said, ‘It’s a wig. Or perhaps a cloud.’  
‘A cloud?’ Mycroft smirked.  
‘A thundercloud,’ Sherlock jutted his chin defiantly.  
‘Actually,’ Lestrade said, stepping forward, ‘It’s a witness to a murder.’  
Sherlock tried to ignore the twinge of excitement.  
‘And you think I can deduce the killer from this...this?’  
‘No,’ Lestrade folded his arms, ‘We already have the killer.’  
‘How can you be sure?’  
‘Because we have him on CCTV doing it,’ Lestrade paused, glancing at Mycroft before continuing, ‘Poor lad saw the whole thing. Triple homicide,’ he added as an incentive, ‘Very brutal.’  
For a second Sherlock stared at the stupid looking dog with it’s diamante collar.  
‘So if you  
ve solved it, what am I supposed to do with it?’  
‘Mycroft thought-’  
Lestrade was silenced by Mycroft’s cough.  
‘I mean, me and Mycroft thought that, you know, since you like dogs, that you might want to, well, keep him.’  
The silence in the flat stretched for long minutes.  
‘I can’t see how you would come to that conclusion,’ Sherlock said eventually, ‘Doesn’t he have owners.’  
‘Not any more,’ Lestrade said ominously, ‘Ad the victim’s brother doesn’t want to keep him so...’  
‘So you thought you would palm it off on me?’  
Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.  
‘It’s not like that-’  
‘How about we leave him here for the night,’ Mrs Hudson offered, ‘And if he doesn’t settle then I’m sure one of my nieces would take him.’  
Before Sherlock could speak, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson left and he was alone in the room with the small black...thing that was staring him down from Sherlock’s own armchair.

#

John staggered in shortly after 2am straight from a late shift. He headed straight for the fridge, reaching for one of the containers carefully labelled ‘food.’ He was peeling off the lid of the left-over Chinese takeaway when he almost tripped over a curly mass in the middle of the kitchen.  
‘Sherlock?’ he called, not taking his eyes off the form in front of him.  
Sherlock appeared, wearing yellow marigolds and a stern expression. He glared at the carton in John’s hand.  
‘Do NOT give it the lemon chicken,’ he said, his eyes flashing ominously, ‘That is not a mistake to be repeated.’  
‘Sherlock,’ John said slowly, ‘Why is there a dog in the flat?’  
‘Apparently Mycroft and Lestrade thought it would be good for me.’  
‘Uh huh,’ John said in a tone that clearly implied there would be much shouting about this the next time he was at the Yard.  
‘Although I’m not convinced it’s really a dog. I lack sufficient data.’  
‘It’s a poodle, Sherlock.’  
‘So not a dog then?’  
‘It’s a breed of dog,’ John said, leaning down to get a better look, ‘He kind of looks like you.’  
Sherlock made a choking noise that brought a brief smile to John’s face.  
‘Is...is that a real diamond collar?’ John asked suddenly.  
‘....um....no?’  
John made a mental note to find out.  
‘So, does he have a name?’  
‘Who?’  
‘The dog.’  
‘Oh, it,’ Sherlock frowned, ‘Gladstone.’  
‘Gladstone?’  
‘It was on his collar.’

#

Despite Sherlock’s refusal to acknowledge his existence, the little dog took to following Sherlock about the flat, clearly besotted. It made John smile every time Sherlock turned around suddenly and almost tripped over the dog.  
Sherlock’s attempts at contacting his brother to arrange collection of the creature were met with radio silence, and it soon became apparent that Mycroft had no intention of retrieving the dog.  
On the third day two men arrived with boxes from Harrods, out of which they produced ceramic feeding dishes, more toys than John could count and a dog bed that looked it cost more than John’s own.  
He looked at Sherlock for an answer, but the taller man just shrugged.  
‘On the best for it. And besides, I want my chair back.’  
John sighed, ‘You didn’t even want to keep- you used Mycroft’s card, didn’t you?’  
But Sherlock wouldn’t be drawn into answering that. Instead he watched as Gladstone examined the plush basket, sniffed it twice, and then delicately leapt back up onto Sherlock’s chair.  
John supressed a smile as he lifted his teacup, ‘Good luck with that.’

#

At three am John leaped out of bed in alarm when he heard the little dog barking downstairs. John crept down the steps, noticing that there was a light still on in the living room. He was about to open the door when he heard another sound, a sort of soft wheezy squeak, which was quickly followed by another bark.  
Pushing open the door, John was confronted with the sight of Sherlock sitting in his char, watching Gladstone who was playing on the rug in front of him with what looked to be a large rubber frog. John came up beside them and watched as Gladstone chewed on the frog, which, when he bit hard enough, emitted a loud squeak which caused the little dog to leap back in alarm. From a safe distance of several feet, the poodle would bark at the frog, and then, when he had clearly decided it was safe, he would creep over and resume chewing on the rubber toy, and the cycle would begin again.  
‘Sherlock?’ John said wearily, ‘Does he have to do that now?’  
‘It’s an experiment in learned behaviour,’ Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off the dog, and John could see the expression of intrigue in them that would have made him smile if he didn’t have to get up for work in three hours.  
‘And what are you’re findings?’ John decided to humour him.  
‘The creature appears to lack the cognitive ability to use past experiences and deduce future events.’  
John frowned, ‘He...he can’t understand that the frog with squeak everytime he chews it?’  
Sherlock’s face lit up, ‘Exactly.’  
‘Great,’ John tried hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘So what does that mean?’  
There was a silence in the room and Sherlock pouted slightly, some of the light disapearing from his eyes as Gladstone shot backwards and gave another little yip at the toy.  
‘It means this dog is incredibly stupid.’

#

When John came down for breakfast, Sherlock was still watching Gladstone interact with his new toy.  
‘Sleep well?’ he asked without looking around at the doctor.  
‘No,’ John snapped, ‘Some idiot was conducting an experiment all night that involved making lots of noise.’  
As if on cue the frog emitted a wheezy squeal.  
‘Science John.’  
John looked from the dog to his flatmate, who was still watching with rapt attention.  
‘You’ll get bored of that before he does.’

#

John arrived home to an eerily silent flat. He had, over the last few days, gotten used to Gladstone’s enthusiastic welcome when he came through the door, and so he pushed the front door open with some caution.  
Gladstone was curled up in John’s seat for once, and didn’t even look up at John came through the door. Sherlock was sitting in his own seat, watching the little dog.  
Out of the corner of his eye, John could see the kitchen table, which looked like it had been used as some sort of operating theatre for rubber frogs while he was out. The corpse of the offending creature was stuck to the wall with a steak knife. John frowned.  
‘What happened?’ John asked, although it was clear he didn’t need to, ‘And what’s wrong with him?’  
Sherlock cocked a disdainful eyebrow, ‘He’s sulking.’  
John felt his lips twitch.  
‘Wonder where he gets that from, then.’

#

For the next two days the little dog ignored Sherlock, and although Sherlock pretended not to care, John could see that he was confused and upset by Gladstone’s behaviour. He tried to engage the dog several times but the dog shunned him completely. The final straw seemed to be when he and John had been out all night on a case and arrived exhausted. Mrs Hudson heard them come in and appeared in the doorwary just behind them.  
‘I thought I might offer to take the little dear for a few hours to let you boys get some sleep,’ she said, as if talking about a newborn rather than a poodle bearing a grudge. Gladstone hadn’t moved from his spot, curled up on John’s chair with his nose pressed against his bum, eyes closed.  
‘I thought he could keep me company. We might go to Mrs Turner’s for a bit and then I was going to bake some biscuits while we watched telly,’ she looked at the little dog, ‘What do you say, Gladstone?’  
John opened his mouth to explain the current situation, but before he could make a sound, Gladstone had jumped off his chair and padded through the door and down the stairs without so much as a backwards glance.  
Sherlock’s expression darkened.  
‘Traitor.’

#

John came out of the shower to find silence had once more descended on the flat. He passed through the living room to find Sherlock asleep on the sofa, the little dog tucked up against him, and a brand new rubber frog clutched in his hand.

#

Three weeks after Gladstone’s arrival John was getting ready for work when he heard Sherlock rattling off deductions in the living room. John knew that Mrs Hudson had taken the skull again, so there could only be one other thing that Sherlock was talking to.  
John smiled as he put on his shoes.

#

A month after the dog arrived, John came home to find Sherlock spralwed on the floor, eyes closed and barely breathing.  
Several feet away Gladstone was flat out on his back, completely still.  
‘What are you doing?’ John asked.  
‘Practicing playing dead.’  
At the sound of Sherlock’s voice Gladstone thumped his tail, just once.  
‘Yeah, he’s got that down,’ John laughed.  
‘Involuntary post mortum contraction,’ Sherlock said without opening his eyes.  
There was a soft parp from the little dog and John’s eyebrows shot up in amusement.  
‘And I suppose that was involuntary too?’

#

Sherlock was still affronted by what the vet said several hours later.  
‘He does not have an eating disorder.’  
‘That’s not what the vet said-’  
‘She said he was overweight.’  
‘That’s because he eats too many biscuits and doesn’t get enough excercise.’  
Sherlock, for once, looked like he was considering John’s words.  
‘We shouldn’t talk about this in front of him. It could be psychologically damaging to him.’  
John wasn’t sure what shocked him more, the fact that Sherlock was considering someone else’s feelings, or the fact that he had finally stopped referring to Gladstone as ‘it.’  
‘Alright, whatever. But no more biscuits.’  
‘Or lemon chicken.’  
‘That goes without saying.’

#

‘No.’ Sherlock pressed the lead into John’s hand.  
‘He’s your dog.’  
‘I can’t be seen wandering around London with that!’  
For a moment John considered arguing, but instead he just shook his head, took a firm hold of the lead and stepped out into the street.  
They’d had the same argument almost every time they took the little dog out for a walk, which wasn’t as often as it should have been as Mrs Hudson had more or less adopted Gladstone too, and was now in the habit of taking the poodle with her as she went about her day.  
It had not occurred to either John or Sherlock that, given how well known Mrs Hudson was in the area, that Gladstone too might become recognisable. The first time it happened was a bit of a surprise. John was waiting to cross the lights when a jogger stopped and bent down to stroke the little dog. John had heard that dogs were a great pick up tool, and it seemed that the smaller and more adorable the dog, the more women stopped to talk. This one, however, didn’t even look at John.  
‘Hello, Gladstone,’ she cooed, and John felt his eyes open wide, but before he could speak, the young woman straightened up, and smiled at him, ‘Give Mrs Hudson my love,’ she said, and then without giving her own name, she smiled at John and ran on.  
John mentioned it later to Mrs Hudson.  
‘Oh yes, we have lots of friends, don’t we Gladstone?’  
Gladstone’s little tail pounded against the floor and Mrs Hudson wrinkled her nose as she smiled.

#

John surveyed the wreck that was formerly there kitchen. Black scorch marks covered the table and one of the walls, and something that smelled like death had congealed across the floor. The bunsen burner was still on, so clearly Sherlock had beat a hasty retreat when he heard John coming home early.  
John stalked back into the living room.  
‘Sherlock?’ he roared.  
There was silence. Not even the flatulence and affection of Gladstone. It only added to John’s suspicions.

#

Sherlock lay perfectly still under his bed, Gladstone silent at his side, tongue peeking out giving him a slightly gormless look.  
John called Sherlock’s name again, and neither Sherlock nor Gladstone flinched. Sherlock was starting to feel proud of his successful teaching when John decided to pull out the big guns.  
‘Gladstone,’ he called in a slightly kinder voice, ‘I’ve got biscuits if you can tell me where Sherlock is.’  
Before Sherlock could stop him, the little dog had wriggled out of their hiding space and let out a series of little yips as he went to find John. Sherlock frowned.  
‘Tout.’

#

Almost two months after Gladstone arrived, Sherlock pounded up the stairs in a panic, the little dog tucked under his coat. As he burst into the flat, John looked up from his paper, and was instantly on his feet when he saw the expression on Sherlock’s face.  
‘Fix him John!’  
Sherlock didn’t let go of the little bundle though, and it took several moments to pry the dog away from Sherlock.  
‘Sherlock-?’  
‘It was those horrible, flappy things in the park.’  
‘Flappy...You mean the geese?’  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and John took that as an affirmative.  
‘They chased him, pecking at him and scaring him.’  
The little dog did indeed look scared, but no where near so much as Sherlock did.  
‘John!’ Sherlock pleaded, and so John dutifully examined the poodle, who was missing a few tufts of hair but seemed otherwise unharmed.  
‘He’s fine Sherlock, he just had a bit of a fright.’  
Sherlock looked uncertain, ‘Are you sure.’  
John nodded, watching Sherlock carefully as he scooped up the little dog again and carried him over to his armchair.  
‘Well, we wont be going back to the park again,’ Sherlock assured the dog, ‘Awful creatures.’  
John watched as Sherlock laid the dog down in his own arm chair and ran long fingers briefly across his head. He marvelled at the open and unforced display of affection, and then he sent a single text to Mycroft.  
You were right about the dog. JW


End file.
